My room was stunning. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window. I was on the forty-seventh floor and I had the sensation of being immersed in the city. No buildings in my sight line, just a dizzying panorama. I turned off the lights in the room so as not to have the view spoilt by any reflections. Night had fallen, the city’s lights twinkled some dozens of metres below me. I had never experienced anything like it. Of course, I’d already been to the top of the Tour Montparnasse in Paris, but then I’d been in a throng of tourists, with cameras flashing and hysterical shrieks. Here, I was alone, in the pitch dark, in utter silence. I pressed myself up against the glass and gazed out avidly.

I thought about Amélie Nothomb. In her novel Fear and Trembling, she describes so well that incredible sensation of throwing oneself into the view, the giddy appeal of the endless space. She talks about ‘mental defenestration’ – that intoxicating feeling of jumping into the void. I was experiencing it, I could feel the heartbeat of this unknown city.

I switched on Louis’s camera and filmed for several minutes, describing as much as I could aloud. ‘You have to come and see this, darling. Thank you for bringing me here.’

How long did I stay like that? Long enough, in any case, to be able to tick off one of the wonders that Louis had listed:

Admire the lights of Tokyo from the top of a skyscraper.

I was so entranced by the beauty of the place that, in the end, I decided to spend my evening at the hotel. The top floor was given over to a swimming pool, which was also completely crazy. All the walls were glass and I was able to ‘mentally defenestrate’ at leisure, my feet dangling in the water, sipping a hot tea. For a moment, I felt as if I had touched paradise on Earth with my finger. Only for a moment.

Later, I dined in the restaurant, three floors below, which afforded the same breathtaking view. Since my arrival a few hours earlier, I’d kept telling myself that it was actually nice to be alone, that I could organize my time as I pleased. I don’t know if I really thought that or whether I was trying to convince myself. Because, having dinner on the top of the city, in the company of my Tokyo guidebooks, surrounded by couples enjoying a romantic dinner, I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I gazed around the room to check whether mine was the only table for one. There was another, at the other end of the restaurant. My pride was saved. A man, apparently, from the look of his clothes and his shape. But, from so far away and with the subdued lighting, it was hard to tell.